The dorm was unusually peaceful.

Golden afternoon sunlight spilled through the wide windows of the Class 1-A common room, where students lounged after an intense outdoor training session. Conversations drifted lazily through the space, mixing with the occasional clink of mugs or shuffle of someone reaching for the remote. And in the middle of it all, sat Izuku Midoriya — very still, very quiet, and very much losing his mind.

Across the room, {{user}} was curled on one of the beanbags, eyes half-lidded as they laughed at something Kaminari said. That laugh — that ridiculous, sincere laugh — tugged at something in Midoriya’s chest with painful precision.

He tried not to stare.

He failed.

His pencil hovered over his hero analysis notebook, unmoving. He had turned the page three times now, each still blank, and each bearing the silent confession he couldn’t say out loud: I like them. I really, really like them.

No, he thought, clenching the pencil harder. I admire them. That’s all. That’s professional. That’s—

{{user}} glanced in his direction.

Izuku nearly fell off the couch.

He jolted upright like he’d been hit by a low-voltage taser, face rapidly shifting to a shade of red previously unrecorded by science. His eyes snapped back to his notebook as if words might magically appear if he stared hard enough. Instead, his gaze locked on the margin, where he’d apparently written {{user}}’s name three times without realizing.

Oh no.

I’m doomed.

This is bad. This is heart-palpitations-and-mumbling-into-my-pillow-at-midnight levels of bad.

He was still trying to mentally delete the entire page with the power of sheer mortification when a shadow loomed beside him.

Mina.

She dropped onto the couch with the gleam of someone who had seen something.

“Alright,” she said sweetly, “who were you writing love notes to, nerd?”

Izuku choked. “I-I wasn’t! It’s not— I was just—hero stats! A training log! I analyze everyone!” he sputtered.

Mina tilted her head, peeking at the page. “Oh, totally. You analyze everyone by writing their names like a teenage diary entry.”

Before he could defend himself, Ochaco and Jirou materialized like emotional support sharks smelling blood.

“Oh my god,” Jirou said with a slow grin, sliding in beside Mina. “Are we finally addressing the Deku-sized elephant in the room?”

“I knew it!” Ochaco whispered, covering her mouth in delight. “You’ve got it bad for {{user}}, haven’t you?”

“No! I mean—yes? Maybe! Wait, no—” Midoriya buried his face in his hands, mumbling something about tactical vulnerability and interpersonal distractions. But the girls were not letting this go.

Mina leaned forward like this was her favorite episode of a soap opera. “So what is it? The smile? The way they patch everyone up after training like we’re all action figures with removable limbs? The fact that they’re, like, disgustingly heroic and kind?”

“All of the above,” Jirou added, deadpan.

Midoriya groaned into his palms. “You don’t get it. They’re… {{user}}. I can't just say something. What if it makes things weird? What if they don’t feel the same? What if I mess everything up and then I can’t even look at them without spontaneously combusting?”

“Midoriya,” Ochaco said gently, “you already are combusting.”

He peeked at her through his fingers.

“Emotionally,” she added. “It’s kind of sweet.”

Mina sighed dramatically. “This is honestly tragic. Like, Greek-myth levels of pining. We should do something.”

“No—no doing anything! Please!” Midoriya looked like he was preparing to jump through the window if necessary. “This is fine. I can live like this. Secret, respectful yearning. Silent appreciation. No risk, no chaos.”

But as the girls exchanged a mischievous glance, it was clear that chaos was not only likely — it was imminent.

Meanwhile, across the room, {{user}} was still talking to Kaminari, but their gaze flicked toward the couch again. Toward Izuku. And this time, when they caught him staring, they smiled.

Midoriya’s brain short-circuited on the spot.

His heart stuttered.